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James Skivington
Category:
Drama
Publisher: FeedARead
ISBN-10: 1782992081
Pages: 133
Copyright: March 30, 2012
ISBN-13: 9781782991137
Price: $6.82 (eBook)
An alcoholic journalist, unemployed and with a failed marriage behind him, sets out to track down an Irish priest accused of child abuse in an orphanage.
An alcoholic journalist, unemployed and with a failed marriage behind him, sets out to track down an Irish priest accused of child abuse in an orphanage.
What starts as an attempt to resurrect his career, quickly becomes an obsession. The more he learns, the more he hates the priest. But only for the child abuse, or also for the journalist’s own memories of his Catholic upbringing?
As his emotions become more extreme, he is forced to examine his motives and his own sense of guilt. If he can forgive himself, can he forgive the priest too, before tragedy strikes?
This is a haunting story of a journey to the heart of darkness, where secrets and long-buried memories break to the surface and set passions running high.
Excerpt
Bridget was about thirty-five and lived with a man who looked as if the only place he’d ever see sixty again would be on somebody’s front door. He had long grey hair and a straggly grey beard, his face and hands were as brown and creased as old leather. He had an air of quiet authority about him and despite his appearance, he was well-spoken, with an accent I placed somewhere in the region of Cork or Limerick. As it turned out, he was what I thought when I first saw him, a tinker. Sorry, a traveller, as we’re now supposed to call them. Parked near the caravan was a small flat-bed truck piled high with scrap metal. I kind of guessed he wouldn’t be mending pots or carving wooden clothes pegs.
The inside of the caravan was neat and clean, his doing, I’m sure, not hers. He shook hands and rather formally introduced himself. Paudy, he said his name was. Short for Padraig, I suppose. He offered me tea and whilst he was making it he shouted through to another room that “the man from the papers” had arrived. He called her Biddy. Paudy and Biddy. Sounded like a variety act that would be well down the bill. He whispered that she was on medication so she might be a bit subdued. But she’d either forgotten to take it or she should’ve asked for her money back. As I began to drink my tea, she came in from the other room, dressed in garish, mismatched clothes, including a skirt so short it could’ve qualified as a broad belt. She seemed to have bathed in cheap perfume that would’ve felled an ox at forty yards, but even that didn’t mask the body odour that hit me as she sat on the couch beside me, lit a cigarette and without any introduction, demanded to know if I was going to “make sure those bastards are thrown into the fuckin’ jail”. I said I wasn’t a policeman, I was a reporter who wanted to get at the truth and if that was brought to the attention of the authorities, it should result in the prosecution of anyone who was guilty.
“Might’ve bloody known,” she said. “Yez are all the same, just want something off of me.”
“Your story, Biddy,” I said, “that’s all.”
Paudy came over and spoke to her quietly.
“Darlin’, he’s okay. He’s on your side. If I didn’t think so, I’d throw him out. Talk to him, there’s a good girl.”
With bad grace she shrugged her shoulders and waved at me.
“Ask away.”
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